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ON THE ROAD WITH... FREAK KENNY CHESNEY/UNCLE KRACKER/GRETCHEN WILSON 9/9/04 ~ TWEETER CENTER ~ TINLEY PARK, IL
I was standing on the porch preparing myself for the hundred-and-fifty yard walk to the mailbox when a minivan pulled into the driveway. I was still recuperating from back surgery and using this five-foot piece of carved cedar with a menacing three-foot Kudu Antelope horn mounted on it for a walking stick. It’d been “cleansed and blessed” by an Indian friend of mine to ward off evil spirits and it looked mean as hell. “You the owner of that pink bus?” she yelled eye-balling me from the safety of her vehicle, “cause I was wondering if you would drive me and some friends out to the Tweeter Center for a concert next Thursday.” “How much you got?,” I queried. “Hundred bucks or so,” she said. “Tell you what, hundred bucks and gas money and I’ll haul you guys out there,” I bargained. “Great, we’ll see you here next Thursday,” came her response as she gunned her engine and she was gone. Another forty-five second conversation fuels a monstrous turn of events in my world which, I’ve learned through the years, keeps me young in a strange sorta way. Problem one was that the bus was a rolling deathtrap. The floor was rusted out, there were no brakes, and, with no plates, insurance, title, or registration, it was far from legal. I waited for the sun to go down before jumping into the ‘84 GMC rustbucket and heading over to a buddy’s junkyard on the south side of Joliet. I never went faster than thirty and kept the door open so I could bail if anything weird suddenly went down. We had five days and a yard full of wrecks at our disposal so calls were placed, a half-barrel was tapped, and we started wrenching that very night creating a bizarre episode of Monster Garage as a bunch of alcoholics ran around manhandling power tools. Three days and forty-nine bucks later The Sow, as we so christened the pink nightmare, was ready to roll. We’d managed to scrounge up everything we needed except brake pads and with various guest appearances from fellow gear-heads, the welding, drilling, cutting, and tuning was all done to some pretty high standards. Even the engine, a small block Chevy 350, was running smooth, so we slapped a dealer plate on the back to make it look legit, loaded up the crew, and took it for test drive straight to the bar. Uncle Kracker was just taking the stage as I snuck into the Tweeter Center that Thursday night relieved that the trip there went so amazingly well and that The Sow was now cooling off in the bus lot. I was grabbing a much-needed beer as I listened to his set which was only twenty minutes at best and ended before I could visually check it out. Next up was some broad named Gretchen Wilson who I know nothing about, but feel she should not allow herself to be shown on the big screens littered about the arena. While her voice wasn’t too hard on the ears, her Lilly Munster like resemblance was a buzz-killing visual assault I wasn’t ready for. Standing in the beer line (again) I mentioned this and was instantly accosted by one of her fans. “Just last year she was living in a car man!” he shouted at me. “Was living in one or was hit by one,” I asked looking back up at the screen. “C’mon dude, that ain’t nice.” He replied as he walked away with his stale pretzel, ending the discussion. It was right about then that I realized I hadn’t seen as many cheap cowboy hats and Wrangler jeans since the Mexican rodeo down in Puerto Vallarta and that I should probably shut up before my bandanna wearing Levi jean covered ass got kicked. Kenny Chesney finally came surfing out of the lights to the sounds of AC/DC and the screams of the predominantly female crowd. Knowing nothing about him either, my first impression led me to believe he was some gay guy from the Bahamas singing country songs. I was wrong of course, but he was wearing a sleeveless blue shirt with flowers around his neck, Wranglers so tight they appeared to be airbrushed on, and he danced around on stage as though a tick was gnawing away at his balls. It was the second, and last, buzz killing visual assault of the evening for me. Seventy-five minutes later a song about sexy tractors ended and the sounds of Guns N’ Roses filled the air ending the show. I was already back on the bus listening to Soulfly while waiting for my passengers to return, thinking the hundred bucks wasn’t nearly worth the pain. | ||
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